Page 86 of One Last Verse

He knew exactly what I needed. The next smack was a little harder and louder. I cried out and picked up the rhythm. He met the roll of my hips with hard thrusts and another smack. Everything in me, every part, buzzed. His cock had no mercy. He pumped fiercely. His hand slipped to my shoulder to push me down against his length. The leather seats squeaked under the weight of our bodies. We were a mixture of sweat, moans, dirty words, and a sliver of pain. Chasing our orgasms. And the chase was beautiful. For a second, we were truly whole. All his worries filtered through me. All his heartbeats repeated mine.

The release was so intense, I blacked out for a brief moment. My mind soared. My body shook. When I came to, Frank’s arm was wrapped around my waist, chin pressed to my shoulder. Mouth open, he was still trying to catch his breath. His broad chest heaved.

My face dropped to his. Cheek to cheek, we rocked slowly, delaying the inevitable. The moment we’d have to separate. The moment we’d have to break this incredible intimacy apart.

“I love you,” I whispered, kissing his damp hair. The words didn’t check with me first. They simply came out because they wanted to. I was tired of telling him this while we fought. I wanted to tell him when we were sharing a passionate moment. Like right now.

He cradled the back of my head and stayed silent, but I felt the thrum of his pulse spiking beneath my touch.

“Just accept it, Frank.”

“It’s such a foreign thing for me to say, baby.” He was still inside me. Our lust coated our thighs and stained the seat. “Just give me some time to get used to it. The way I feel with you…” His voice wavered, tripped, and faded into the sound of the music. “I can’t quite put it into words just yet.”

“Says the award-winning songwriter?” I smiled, but something in my chest twitched. I remembered what he’d said to me the other day. He didn’t want to make music anymore. Yes, he’d been drunk, but something told me he felt this way when he was sober too. At least, for now.

Being mad at him was impossible. Though twisted, his confession meant a lot.

“That’s why it’s so difficult. Words are tricky. Wrong ones hurt the most.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Frank.” I caught his gaze. “Unless you give me a valid reason to. I’ll admit, it’s been challenging, but the problem you have is fixable. Everyone feels down. Everyone is miserable at some point in their lives. The main thing is to face it and find the strength to move forward, and as long as you’re trying to work through this, I’ll be by your side.”

It was the strangest thing, talking to a man about recovery while he was buried inside me.

Frank’s face softened. “You might be the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re smart, beautiful”—a playful glint entered his eyes—“and your blow jobs are amazing.”

I laughed and smashed my lips against his. We were a mess, beyond hot. We were smoldering. Nothing else mattered.

A tap on the window was like a bucket of cold water. I saw the jerk of a flashlight. Then there was another tap and a voice.

Panic clutched my chest. “Oh shit. Police.” My hands shook as I tried to pull my dress over my breasts. We separated.

Cursing, Frank zipped up his jeans. “Let me get behind the wheel,” he hissed.

“No,” I protested, sliding back into my seat and lowering the music. “Stay there.” I wasn’t about to let him crawl across the center console with a busted shoulder. A Ferrari wasn’t a very spacious car, after all.

Rolling down the window, I caught only a small glimpse of the uniform and the badge. The flashlight blinded me. Chilly air streamed in, biting the bare skin on my shoulders and knees.

“Ma’am?” I heard a drawl. “Have you been drinking?”

Squinting, I shook my head. My hands were in my lap. My panties were nowhere to be found. My bra was on the floor.

“License and registration?” The officer barked and surveyed the interior of the car. The flashlight jumped over to Frank as he drew the paperwork from the glove compartment.

I scrambled for my purse.

We were silent while the officer scanned our IDs. A few moments later, he dipped his head and asked, “Is this your vehicle, Mr. Bla— I mean, Mr. Wallace?”

Frank nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Is this the V-12 model?”

“That’s right.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s better. Thank you.”

The officer handed us the paperwork and the IDs. His eyes darted to me, then back to Frank. “Mr. Wallace, I’m supposed to give you and Ms. Evans a citation for public indecency.”

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